Ieger's Buenos Aires
by Alberto Giudici

                        The first sensation when we approach Graciela Ieger's world is strangeness. The places recurrently portrayed are familiar to us: the city of Buenos Aires, its emblematic sites, the business district, the quietness of certain neighborhoods which have miraculously survived the pickaxe, the low houses, the old street lamps. And yet, despite the familiarity, our gaze undergoes a process of de-naturalization and detachment, accomplished by the vigorous constructive element on the one hand and the outstanding treatment of light on the other.
The lines in inevitable flight, the deserted streets at a  standstill in an absent time, lead us to a certain vision of metaphysical painting which, in Ieger's work, implies a subtle alteration of the world of appearances, namely, of the real world.  One could think, then, that the recognizable world is actually an inner landscape, a mirage, a door which opens onto the unexplored spaces of our mind. But is the urban architecture a mental space? It is, yes, when the perception of the visible world goes through the sieve of a fine artistic sensibility. 
“Hopper is an important reference point" Ieger tells us. "I feel a great affinity to those urban landscapes of still, quiet buildings; to the skill with which he works light and dark; to the poetry of everyday life." Edward Hopper transits through her work like a gust of memories, not as a quote or an appropiation but rather as a kinship, an empathy, a communion of experiences.
Dusk is the protagonist of her most recent production. The same urban screen, the same timeless time. Space and silence keep their burden of melancholy. But, despite the cool color schemes, the glimmer of a street light or the persistent glitter on the horizon beyond the roofs have a way of enveloping the whole in a coccoon of warmth, as regular as breathing in a dream. Night illuminates a more intimate poem in Graciela Ieger. Light becomes a caress.

English  translation  by  Eloisa Squirru    (elosquirru@venus.it)